


Every time you see through me

by Builder



Series: Whoa Bessie [4]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alternate Universe, Amputee Bucky Barnes, Domestic, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Sickfic, Trans Steve Rogers, Vomiting, carsickness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-05
Updated: 2018-04-05
Packaged: 2019-04-18 16:58:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,179
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14217630
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Builder/pseuds/Builder
Summary: Sometimes it's a challenge for James to unravel his feelings, physical and mental.  Steve is an expert at knitting him back together.





	Every time you see through me

**Author's Note:**

> This was a prompt from Tumblr. find me @builder051

They leave the car in a commuter lot at the Falls Church metro stop and take the train into DC.  James has been here for almost a year now and still hasn’t done a monuments walk, so Steve sees fit to correct that.  They spend the entire Saturday strolling around the capital, drinking Starbucks and reading plaques.  Steve tries to teach James the art of selfies with scenic backdrops. 

It’s fun until they get to the Vietnam War memorial and James loses his ability to articulate the rush of thoughts in his head.  The polished black walls look like they’ll swallow him if he walks between them.  It’s the wrong war, and 50 years too far back, but it’s still too close for comfort.  The sun’s dipping toward the horizon anyway.  He decides he’s too tired.  “Maybe… next time?”  James says, trying not to grit his teeth. 

 

“Yeah, of course.”  Steve wraps his arm loosely around James’s waist.  “Of course.”

 

The train’s not as packed as it usually is on weekday rush hour, but it’s still crowded.  There are a fair number of families with kids headed out of the city, and James glances around uncomfortably.  After spending so much time around doctors and therapists, he’s still getting used to the way the general public gawks at his missing arm.  He scoots a little closer to Steve as a man and his toddler daughter take the seat beside him. 

 

“Do you want to pick up something for dinner?” Steve asks.  “We’re gonna drive right by the Olive Garden on our way home.” 

 

James looks at the floor.  The little girl is starting to cry, and his head hurts.  He isn’t sure if it just started or if he’s only just noticed it.  His body feels heavy.  He just wants to go home.

 

James shrugs, and Steve presses on.  “I don’t mind cooking.  We could do grilled cheese.  Maybe with some tomato soup?”

 

Tomato soup sounds revolting, but warmth sounds good.  James wants to burrow under Steve’s arm, but there are too many people around.  So he sighs.  Rubs his forehead.  Closes his eyes.

 

“Tired, Buck?”  Steve puts his hand in the divet between James’s neck and shoulder, gently pressing into the tense muscles.  It feels good, but it still borders on overstimulating.  Combined with the train’s flickering overhead light and the little girl’s sobbing, James wants to sink into the floor. 

 

It’s a relief when they get off the train and ride the escalator out into the station.  Steve reaches for James’s hand, and they trudge side-by-side to the car.  It’s cold, which is odd because a little while ago the air felt warm and muggy.  Now the hair on James’s arm stands on end with goosebumps. 

 

Steve turns on the radio and starts humming along with a classic rock tune.  James struggles with his seatbelt, then leans back against the headrest as Steve reverses out of the parking spot.  They drive in a slow spiral to get out of the multi-level garage, and by the time they get out on the street, James’s headache has spread down over his shoulders and through his chest. 

 

“You’re quiet,” Steve says after a while.  “You doing ok?”  He looks over at James for second, then flicks his eyes back to the road. 

 

“Mm.”  Everything is leaden; his arm, his legs, his tongue in his mouth.  Even the rise and fall of his breathing feels unnaturally labored and slow.  James looks out the window and watches the scenery of their neighborhood flash past.  It’ll probably be ten minutes till they get home to their apartment, but that’s too long to wait.  His mouth is too wet; the springs in his joints are coiled too tightly. 

 

“Buck?” Steve prompts.

 

James needs to say something; he needs Steve to pull over.  He can’t force his mouth open, though.  His throat contracts as his stomach forces its way upward.  His head swims, and he knows it’s too late.  He manages a quiet whisper-groan, but it’s lost in the deluge of coffee mixed with stomach acid that’s suddenly splattering into his lap.

 

“Oh, shit,” Steve mutters, putting on the hazard lights and hastily pulling up to the curb.  “Hold on, Buck.” 

 

James does his best, but he’s powerless against the urge to gag.  He presses his shaky hand over his mouth, and as soon as Steve rounds the car and opens the passenger door, he doubles over himself and vomits again.  It drips through his fingers and onto the pavement.  James watches a dribble hit Steve’s shoe, but Steve doesn’t seem to care.  He pats James’s shoulder and sweeps his hair away from his sweaty forehead. 

 

“Alright, you’re alright,” Steve murmurs.  James can’t stop quivering.  It’s hard to tell if the queasiness in his gut is another rising heave or just his entire body vibrating.  He breathes harshly for a moment, then retches.  Only spit comes up, and it doesn’t want to detach from his lower lip. 

 

“It’s ok.”  Steve opens the glove box to look for napkins.  “You just feeling carsick, or…?”  He trails off as James lifts his head wipes his mouth with his wrist. 

 

“’M ok,” James chokes.  It seems like the right answer, though it’s probably the farthest one from the truth.  A concrete mixer is turning in his stomach, weighing him down as it makes him sick.  That’s not something that belongs in his body, but James is too exhausted to care.

 

“Just breathe for a minute,” Steve says, holding out a napkin so James can wipe his hand.  “We’ll get you home soon.”

 

James coughs.  He starts to wonder if he’s going to throw up again, but his brain is moving so slowly that before he even puts the thought together he already is.  It’s pure bile this time.  And it hurts.

 

“Alright, Buck.”  Steve rubs his back.  “Get it up.  You’re alright.”

 

It feels like a year before James finishes, but the car clock shows the episode only lasted ten minutes beginning to end.  James leans his forehead against the window so he doesn’t have to see Steve looking at him every few seconds as they drive. 

 

When they get back to the apartment, Steve practically drags James inside.  James flops onto the couch, torn between apologizing and curling up into a ball and wishing for death.  He ends up doing neither because he’s too slow.   Before he can even blink, Steve’s crouched in front of him with his hand cupping James’s cheek.

 

“You’re feeling bad.”  It’s not a question.  “I’m gonna take your temperature, ok?”

 

Steve stands up, and the swish of his jeans disappears down the hall.  When he comes back, he palms James’s forehead and eases the thermometer between his lips.  James almost gags on it, but Steve strokes his arm and holds his disgusting hand until the device beeps. 

 

“Yeah,” Steve sighs as he reads the number.  “What do you say we get you cleaned up and in bed?” 

 

James can’t make himself say anything, but he lifts his head a few inches and nods.


End file.
